


The Talking Cure

by DariaHernandez



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Arguing, Established Relationship, Heroes using civilian therapists is comedy gold, Hilarity and angst ensue, M/M, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:41:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23912479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DariaHernandez/pseuds/DariaHernandez
Summary: Two vigilantes and a couples therapist walk into a room.
Relationships: Tim Drake/Jason Todd
Comments: 19
Kudos: 263





	The Talking Cure

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a distant sequel to my last fic, His Name Is Shame, but stands alone. 
> 
> Warning: If you don’t like couples arguing or being mean to each other, please proceed with caution.

Alan Aoyama watches the Keurig in the office suite’s kitchenette spurt dishwater-colored coffee into his “Be You!” mug. The machine is on the fritz again and his two o’clock is due any minute. At fifty-two, he doesn’t have the stamina to do an intake session without caffeine, so he reaches for the black tea and electric kettle.

When he hears the bell over the door to the waiting area, he shouts, “Tim! Jason! If that’s you, my office is the first door on the left! Be right with you!”

Minutes later, Alan shuffles into his office balancing a mug of scalding water. His two o’clock clients are seated on opposite ends of the camelback sofa, and he hands them the clipboard of required forms with a smile, “Nice to meet you both. I’m Alan Aoyama. Call me Alan.”

He hides his surprise at how young the two men seem; neither could be over twenty-five. Boys, really. Couples typically wait six or seven years before seeking counseling and he doubts they’ve been together that long. Alan takes a seat on his armchair.

The young man in the starched button-down and Chinos smiles stiffly, “Hi, Alan. I’m Tim Drake.” The name sounds familiar, but Alan can’t place it. Tim motions to his right with his elbow. “And this is my boyfriend, Jason. Smith.”

Jason stares at the window to his right even though the blinds are down. His face is the picture of quiet anger.

Alan can never help trying to guess things about his clients from their clothes and body language, and there is a lot of unpack with these two. Tim is sitting up, leaning slightly forward with forearms resting on his lap, trying to appear at ease; the crease between his brows betrays him. His clothes and Apple watch are, according to some clickbait on Alan’s Facebook feed, the hallmarks of a “tech bro.” He’s a bit below average height with a narrower frame, but his biceps strain against his shirt sleeves when he bends his arms. He must care about fitness. Tim has that fresh-faced prettyboy quality that reminds Alan of his niece’s current pop star obsession. John Menendez was it?

On the other end of the sofa is Jason, slouched with his legs spread out. He’s propping his head against the arm that’s resting on the sofa. He’s still staring at the window, though his scowl is relaxing into a pout. He looks for all the world like a sulky teenager. Jason’s features are darker than Tim’s and a premature streak of gray blends into pitch-dark hair at his forehead. He’s definitely clearing six feet and—he must _really_ care about fitness, because his tee-shirt and jeans are fighting nobly to contain his arms and thighs. Alan wonders if Tim and Jason met at the gym. 

It’s obvious that neither is going to break the ice, so he starts.

“Great,” Alan says brightly, “I’m excited to get to know you both. A little about me: I did my PsyD at Rutgers and have been a practicing counseling psychologist for twenty years. What else? I’m a dad to two cats, named Lola and Emily.”

“Are you from here?” Jason asks pointedly, Gotham accent obvious in four words alone.

“Actually, I commute to this office a couple of days a week. I live in Jersey City,” Alan answers. Jason turns to Tim with a sardonic smile as if to say _See?_

Alan gets back on track, “I like to start things off simple: what brought you here?”

“A _fascinating_ question,” Jason mutters, back to staring at the blinds.

“We get it. You don’t want to be here,” Tim says sharply. “Anyway, Alan. We’ve been having some trouble communicating and my friend Steph suggested counseling.”

Jason looks askance at Alan and stage whispers, “ _His ex_.”

“ _How_ is that relevant?” Tim demands.

“I’m telling him the facts. Aren’t we supposed to be honest in therapy?” Jason taunts, throwing his hands up theatrically.

“Jason,” Alan jumps in, “How would you describe your reasons for being here?”

“Tim thinks I’m too emotionally-stunted to express my feelings like a big boy and concluded that dragging me here to spill my guts to a complete stranger was the sensible solution.”

Alan hums sympathetically, “Having a mediator is a perfectly healthy way for any couple to work through their frustrations. I’m glad you’re both here. This is just our first session, so I want to focus on getting to know you, as individuals and as partners.”

Tim takes several calming breaths and says lowly, “You’ve only been like this recently, Jason. I just want you to tell me what’s wrong.”

Jason doesn’t respond.

“How long have you two been together?” Alan asks casually.

“Depends on where you start counting, I guess,” Tim says at the same time that Jason replies, “One year and two months.” The two register each other’s answer and Jason flushes from embarrassment.

“I wasn’t out as bisexual until this relationship. We didn’t tell people at first,” Tim explains.

“I never twisted his arm about it, by the way,” says Jason.

“No joke. If you had it your way, o—my family would never find out about us,” Tim sneers. 

“Tim, would you say your family has been supportive of your relationship with another man?” Alan probes gently.

“Please. That’s the least of their problems with me,” Jason laughs.

“For the last time, they don’t hate you, Jason,” snaps Tim. “ _Dad_ is practically obsessed with you.” There’s something bitter there, but Alan doesn’t want to jump to any conclusions.

“Because Dad—feels—guilty, Tim.” Jason’s eyes are slits and his tone brooks no argument. They’re facing each other now, taut and still, like two dogs sizing each other up for a fight.

Alan almost misses the fact that Jason called his boyfriend’s father “Dad.” However, there will always be time for in-law drama in subsequent sessions. Right now, he needs to steer this ship back on course.

“Let’s recalibrate, gentlemen,” he suggests. “Can you tell me—respectfully—some things you wish the other were doing differently in the relationship?”

“Sure thing, Alan,” Jason says with mock-eagerness. “We should use I-statements, right? How about: Tim, _I_ feel angry when you get on my case about quitting my job, because _I_ told you when we got together that the subject is off limits.”

“Do you really think that’s fair, Jason?” Tim’s shoulders slump in disappointment. “That you can unilaterally decide what we’re allowed to talk about? I’m not asking you to do it for _Dad’s_ sake, but for _mine_.”

Alan should let them continue, but curiosity gets the better of him. “What’s the job?” The pair turn to Alan with alarm. So, Jason’s job is a raw nerve in this relationship that must be treated with care.

“I work the night shift in a slaughterhouse. In Tricorner,” Jason says eventually. “I have for six years.”

“Seven,” Tim corrects absently.

“It must be hard work,” Alan ventures.

“Work that he doesn’t need to be doing,” Tim interjects. “Killing _animals_ doesn’t have to be part of it. I know he doesn’t find it fulfilling anymore.”

Jason runs his hands through his hair in frustration, making the dark curls stand up. Tim seems to take his silence as a retreat and continues, “Do you know how many times I’ve come home to find you slumped in our hallway, soaked in blood? The panic I feel not knowing if it’s yours or—or the animals’?” 

“Sounds extremely dangerous,” Alan offers, trying to mask his shock.

“It is!” Tim says desperately. “And he won’t even consider seeing things from my perspective.”

“I can’t quit, Tim. This city needs me,” Jason says, but there’s not as much fight in his voice.

Gotham . . . needs slaughterhouse workers? Alan ponders. 

“Okay, screw _me_ I guess. I’ll just sit on my hands until you come back to me in a body bag.” Tim crosses his ankle over his knee and bounces his foot in agitation. The tension in the room is rising exponentially, but Alan hopes they’ll reveal just a little more in the heat of the moment. 

Jason’s fists are clenched on his lap. “You’re a hypocrite. You put your life in danger every day, too.”

“Can you remind me what it is you do, Tim?” Alan asks.

“Computer programming,” Tim answers, without missing a beat. “Jason, it’s not the same. I take plenty of precautions.”

“Because you’re so smart and cool and collected and you’ve got the job down to a science. I know.” Jason rolls his eyes.

Tim’s foot is still bouncing, but his shoulders have a telltale stiffness about them. He’s a coiled snake and Alan can’t guess when he’ll spring—they need to defuse the situation.

“No, it’s because I know I have too much to live for,” Tim says slowly. 

Jason scoffs, “What, like me?”

“Who the _fuck_ else, Jason!” Tim roars.

Jason leans back in shock, all traces of his bravado vanished. He watches Tim’s chest rise and fall raggedly, body recovering from the outburst.

“ _Oh_ -kay, gentlemen,” Alan intervenes, clapping his hands together. “Maybe we could all use a tea break.”

Tim moans and slumps forward, head in his hands. “No, no. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It’s just . . . .”

“Just _what_?” asks the other. It’s not anger Alan hears in the question, but something closer to fear, trepidation. Jason is bracing himself for something he thinks he doesn’t want to hear. The room lapses into a heavy silence, but Alan’s instincts tell him to stay quiet and let the two find their words. Tim is still breathing rapidly and Alan verifies that the Kleenex box is on his side table, just in case.

"I don't know if I’ll ever convince you that I love you." Tim rests his forehead on his palm and stares at the carpet. He’s quiet again, the moment of hesitation before the jump. "And if I can't then what’s the point of being together?"

Jason takes a sharp, deep breath through his nostrils and reclines on the sofa. He shifts his gaze to the ceiling and Alan can’t help but notice that his eyes are wet. His jaw is clenched tightly, Adam’s apple bobbing, and Alan knows he’s struggling against the tears. Alan will not offer him the Kleenex.

“I know you love me, Tim, and that's what sucks. You may care about me now, but you won't eventually, because I'm me, and I don’t want to watch you—the one good thing in my shit life—fall out of love with me."

Alan’s heart breaks for the kid. Jason shuts his eyes, rests his head over the seatback, and a couple of tears escape. He’s crossed his arms over his chest. Hands gripping his upper arms, holding himself. A moment later, Tim stands, walks to the other end of the sofa, and wraps his arms around Jason’s shoulders. He doesn’t let go as he plops down on the cushion beside him, cradling Jason’s head against his neck.

“How could I fall out of love with you, Jay?” he whispers. He keeps one arm around Jason and uses the other to stroke his hair.

“’Cause I’m not going to quit the job, at least not yet,” Jason says wetly, eyes still squeezed tight.

“I think I could come to understand why,” Tim’s voice cracks. “It just freaks me out sometimes, that you can kill so remorselessly and then come home in the morning and _kiss_ me.”

Alan wonders if Tim is vegan; he seems to have a lot of empathy for the livestock Jason handles.

“But that won’t make me leave,” Tim promises, pressing his nose against his partner’s temple, stroking his cheek with his knuckles. “There’s no getting over you, Jason.”

Jason unfurls himself, gripping the front of Tim’s shirt and burying his head in Tim’s neck. He’s breathing hard again.

“I’m sorry I’m crying,” Alan thinks he hears Jason say.

“Never apologize for that,” Tim replies softly.

Alan beams at them, recalling how it felt to be in his early twenties. Everything was life and death, especially relationships. Seeing as Tim and Jason have completely forgotten he’s there, Alan figures it might be a good time for that tea break.

“Well,” Alan starts, but the boys are already on their feet, Jason wiping at his eyes with the hem of his shirt. They turn to each other and exchange a look that Alan can’t read. With lovers, not all codes can be deciphered. Then he notices the two heading for the door. “Wait a moment. Tim? Jason?” They need to decide on a regular meeting time, but his words don’t seem to penetrate. And then they’re gone, out the door.

Part of him wonders if he should even take them on as clients; Jason didn’t seem too keen on cooperating until the very end. But a bigger part of Alan is deeply captivated by these young men. He works with too many couples that are already checked out, couples for whom therapy is a mere formality that precedes the hiring of divorce attorneys. Tim and Jason have a passion for each other that reminds Alan why his work is meaningful.

That’s when he realizes that they never finished their paperwork. He glances at the clock. Odds are they’ve already exited the building, but maybe he can catch them on the sidewalk.

Alan opens his office door to find Tim and Jason still there, caught in a _very_ intimate kiss. He can’t help a small gasp of surprise, which finally catches their attention.

“I’m sorry to interrupt. The forms,” Alan says, raising the clipboard to his face as though it might salvage their modesty. Jason looks at him like he wouldn’t care if Alan spontaneously combusted on the spot and Tim, at least, appears somewhat embarrassed.

“Thank you, Alan,” he says, taking the clipboard.

“How do Friday afternoons work for you two? I don’t want to interfere with your— computer programming, Tim,” Alan responds.

Jason snorts, thick eyebrows raised high, “You really think we’re coming back here, Jersey City?”

His back talk doesn’t bother Alan; he now recognizes it for the defense mechanism that it is. Beside Jason, Tim fills out the forms and hums thoughtfully.

“We have to go home and take a look at our schedules . . . but afternoons are typically best for us,” he says cheerfully, poking his boyfriend’s stomach to preempt a complaint. Alan notes that Tim bears no traces of the emotional catharsis he’d just experienced; right back up, good as new. A practiced habit. 

Alan takes his forms back and watches the pair walk down the hall to the waiting room door. Before he shuts himself in his office, their voices carry.

“You called Bruce ‘Dad’ by the way.”

“Did not.”

“Yep, you did. And now Alan probably thinks we’re weird incest twins or something.”

“I did not call him ‘Dad!’” 

**Author's Note:**

> You know the makeup sex was primal. 
> 
> I had so much fun with this; I have ideas for two or three more chapters but didn’t want to commit to the “in progress” status just yet. Couples therapists do see their clients one-on-one, is all I’m saying. 
> 
> Also, I’m on tumblr. Hit me up @ www.dariahernandez.tumblr.com


End file.
